What Can't Be Fixed
by Feathers Fall Like Snow
Summary: All Bruce ever did anymore was work and sleep. He was just continuing on like nothing ever happened. Like he never happened.


Bruce sat alone in the Batcave, repetitiously switching between working on his computer and working on his newest piece of equipment.

That's more-or-less all he'd been doing for the past week or so. Working. He kept to the same strict schedule everyday: wake up, eat a little breakfast, work, work some more, come home, skip dinner, work on his gadgets, patrol, sleep, then repeat. Alfred was getting increasingly worried about him. He barely ate, the little sleep he got lasted only four to five hours at the maximum, and he was even less social than usual— and that was saying something! All Bruce ever did anymore was work and sleep (and patrol of course, but Alfred thought that was more out of obligation than anything else). He was just continuing on like nothing ever happened. Like _he_ never happened.

Alfred tried talking to Bruce, he tried getting the man away from his work, he tried getting him to take a break, or to go out and do anything. For God's sake, he'd even slipped sleeping pills into the man's food in a failed attempt to make him get some damn rest! But Bruce just pushed away the meal without even a word or a spared glance; like he _knew_. Which, considering the billionaire _did_ double as the freaking _Batman_, was just as real a possibility as him having just not been hungry at the time.

It was after the last-ditch effort of the sleeping pills that Alfred finally decided to call in reinforcements; A.K.A. 'Superman'.

Clark attempted to talk to his friend, he tried to take him out to eat, he even shot at slowly prying the information he needed from the man. All he wanted was for Bruce to simply talk about it. Was that really so much to ask for? For whom he considered to be the equivalent of a best friend to confide in him that which was causing him so much strife?

Apparently, the answer was 'yes'.

The Man of Steel had made the mistake of mentioning _his_ name the second time he'd come over to eat. Bruce merely glanced at him and told him that it didn't matter, his voice completely emotionless, his expression schooled. Clark had foolishly asked how Bruce could just not care about him. Bruce had glared at him, hard and long, and told him he had absolutely no room to talk, what with how cold he had been acting towards Superboy. Clark calmly explained that that was the past and he had now accepted his full responsibility of being the boy's mentor. To this Bruce had no reply, so Clark persisted with the original subject once more. Bruce then looked him directly in the eyes and stated that he had "other, more important problems to care about" and that he "doesn't matter anymore". It was at this point Clark lost it a little and broke the expensive table between him and Bruce.

It was a few moments before Alfred came to intervene; a few more before he pried Bruce from Clark's death grasp. The man hadn't been by since; no one had. Bruce just sat in his precious cave. Working.

Alfred decided upon one more last-ditch and stopped by to offer some food in hopes that his 'son' would actually eat it. Upon entering the Batcave, however, he was met with stark silence and the turned silhouette of Bruce hunched over something in front of the supercomputer. The butler approached him as quietly as he could, seeing how intensely the man studied his newest toy. He heard him softly speaking to what appeared to be himself; something that was greatly…disturbing in the current situation.

"Seven new devices…" A ghost of a smile briefly settled itself on Bruce's lips, but in the blink of an eye it was gone. "It's a shame Dick will never see them." And with that said, Bruce carefully picked up the new items and threw them across the room. They promptly broke into pieces with a loud clatter and the sound of metal scattering. Alfred stood silently watching as the man leaned back in his chair and placed one hand over his eyes. Alfred made no comment about the soft sobs he heard or the streaks of tears he saw falling past the covering appendage; he just quietly and solemnly turned and retreated back to the kitchen to return the food that had once seemed so important.

* * *

**This was written rather quickly and is based off a poem by Robert Frost "Home Burial" and the idea that men express their grief differntly i.e. building and repairing things**

**oh ya I own nada**

**P.S. I owe all this amazingness and beta-ing and everything to Talithi! (Can you say ama-za-zing?)**

**So now please _review, alerts, favorite,_ and what not plz!**

**thank ya! **

**¡sɹǝɥʇɐǝɟ**


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